


A Wandering Eye

by Altonym



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:00:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altonym/pseuds/Altonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhod begins to let himself be, while travelling prior to the events of Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wandering Eye

The office had been settled layer after layer; successive strata of documents, files, books and soft furnishings clamoured over each other for inspection. In the first week after he had arrived Rhod had been cautious - he got out his books, he sat his stuffed bear carefully against the supplied pillow, he unpacked  - but he had not really made the room home. Over time his many cushions, kept in big leather-wood chests he had schlepped from Orzammar in a wide-wheeled carriage, began to populate the room like breeding nugs. Rhod liked his spaces comfortable.

It was a quiet place, tucked in a corner of Bann Eowulf's lodgings near to the outer ring wall. The good Bann was the sole owner of a silver mine, from which he extracted a considerable fortune. This fort, palacial by Ferelden standards, sat at the very western tip of one of the most remote Banns in the country - the Frostbacks towered behind as the river Wanth, one of a thousand tributaries to Lake Calenhad, swept in a wide curve in front of the main wall.

It was one of the most secure locations in Ferelden, a key strategic point in any potential invasion by Orlais - or so said Terence Motham in his seminal work on Ferelden geopolitics, The Dog's Snout. Rhod had been doing his reading.

He had a balcony with commanding views over the lower Frostbacks, a wide wooden desk for his calculations, and a mandate from Eowulf to shave gold from whatever accounts he possibly could. It was the kind of work Rhod loved, millimetric and systemic, the sort of work in which he was afforded total authority over schedules and budgets and rosters. He had barely left this room since he got here.

"The problem", he would say knowingly, his voice rising to a jabbering pitch, "is that the way in which your levies are organised into larger squadrons is totally arbitrary." He would wag his finger, drawing elaborate shapes in the air - "it should be geographical, and based around agreed rally points at strategic locations. Why pull all the levies in your bann here when you could have them assemble locally; at outposts, perhaps new ones to be built, I don't know, and then you have fewer problems with inadequate garrison forces failing to get messages out."

Eowulf's face would adopt the same sort of look during all of these meetings, a mix of exasperation at being constantly interrupted and surrender to the onslaught of Rhod's 'suggestions'. "To move on to your household accounts..."

At this exact moment, Rhod sat on his balcony, trying to get a little wind to compensate for the baking late summer heat. On a small stone table lay a large glass of Tevinter wine, salty Frostback goat's cheese with thinly sliced cucumber, and small, raisin-studded sweet pastries glazed in Orlesian honey. Rhod found that he worked best with a little culinary inspiration.

Today he was working on plans for a new literacy programme. He had been astonished to find how few humans read; he barely knew anyone in Orzammar who didn't know how to read...well, casteless, he supposed, but even Smiths needed to read for their inscriptions. How could one possibly enjoy a stroll around the Shaperate without being able to read? It was nonsense.

Besides which, administration was made much easier by widespread literacy, and he intended to bring the household staff up to speed. He had suggested to Eowulf that he might be better off trusting his accounts to non-knights, people without a vested interest in embezzlement. That was the Orzammar way; have a family of servants who read and write expertly but have no hope of land ownership, and the most they will do is steal a little money for the holidays. Pay them enough and they might refrain even from that.

"It's all very dwarven," Eowulf had blustered, "all a bit of a fuss." Rhod would convince him yet.

He was just searching for a misplaced slide rule when he heard a voice from behind him - a familiar one, in the lilting tones of West Ferelden. "It's under your plate of cheese."

Rhod blinked, lifting the plate cautiously. There it lay. "Thanks," he said absently, and then realised who it was. His cheeks turned a deep shade of red, not far off the colour of the wine he swiftly proceeded to down.

Eowulf's son Mennon, to whom the familiar voice belonged, was perhaps the most perfect being on this useless earth. He had a million tight coily curls in both beard and hair, thick brooding eyebrows over eyes so dark brown that they seemed almost black. He had what Rhod euphemistically described to himself as 'the body of a warrior', and he moved so elegantly that nothing seemed an accident.

Most of all, he was friendly, which really pissed Rhod off, because frankly you always wanted the pretty ones to be complete arseholes. It made it easier to be bitter, allowed you to rationalise away your loneliness.

"'Mm. How's it going?" Rhod was stabbing desperately at normal conversation.

"Oh, swimmingly," said Mennon, dripping with sarcasm, "I just spent the better part of a day trying to quell this bizarre rumour that all the landowners are going to have their property dispossessed and redistributed based on some dwarven model of efficiency."

He paused, taking a seat. "That is just a bizarre rumour, right?"

Rhod rolled his eyes. The Bann himself was an ambitious man, and thus willing to source from many places others would not have bothered with - this included dwarves, and Rhod's presence was therefore not exactly popular. His influence was suspect, his ideas were foreign, and most importantly he was keeping a very close eye on who actually produced results - the Bann wanted to clear house with the local nobility, solidifying his power base and potentially netting a fortune in gold from the dispossession.

"I mean, if they do get dispossessed, it'll be your dad's fault, not mine." He gave a huff, which made Mennon laugh, which made Rhod grin slightly. He stuffed a cucumber slice in his mouth to hide it. For some reason, it seemed absolutely imperative that he be as cold as possible to Mennon, just in case.

"All the same, I'd stay away from any poisoned food," said Mennon, stealing a piece of goat's cheese to slip into his beautiful, evil mouth. Rhod swallowed quickly, nodding. "I mean, that's sound policy in general, I think."

Mennon laughed again, and Rhod very quickly busied himself with his ledger. Mennon idled for a while, obviously without anything pressing to do, as if waiting for Rhod to invite him to stay. Rhod wouldn't do it, though. You couldn’t give these things away.  
  


* * *

  
Early morning off the coast of Amaranthine, a world away in climate and mood. The gulls sang their keening song over an endless grey-blue, the deep cold colour of the autumn ocean. Salt was in the air, as was heavy wet wood, and when Rhod took a breath, it was as if all the wind of the world was entering his lungs.  
  
He was discovering two things; first, that he loved the ocean, the sea, the open sky, and second, that this made him a very odd dwarf indeed.  
  
“So you really love it out here, eh?” Salha grinned, sitting with perfect balance at the side of the boat. He had set out the net, and there was a little while to wait while it settled.   
  
“It’s amazing,” said Rhod, his eyes bright. “It’s fresh. It feels as though my inside spaces are being cleared out, bad air exchanged for good, all that kind of stuff.”  
  
“If you say so,” said Salha, and gave his crooked little grin, showing awkward, too-close teeth. Rhod thought those teeth were the most beautiful teeth in the world. Salha had long, lean limbs, always half exposed by shorts, rolled up sleeves, sandals. And he was funny, kinder than any of the Bann’s sons Rhod had spent his time pining after.   
  
“So, um,” Rhod gathered himself together. “I want to ask you about realistic fishing yield over a year. Your Bann gave me figures which I think must be wrong, I think they underestimate how much you fish.”  
  
“Oh yeah, that they do.” Salha sniffed, rubbing his nose. “The less they report, the less tax they pay. S’like a loophole, they want this area to seem poorer than it is. The waters here are rich, especially in pearls, and the Bann wants the secret kept so he can hoard the wealth they provide. At the moment, only pearlers licensed by him can dive, which means they pay a percent of whatever they earn. If the Queen knew what’s here, she’d want to make it a big cash cow, she’d open the trade up, you see?” Salha scowled, and spat into the ocean.  
  
Rhod stared, somewhat amazed. “How do you know all of that? I mean, you're cut off from everything here, you're-”  
  
“Just a fisherman?” Salha was eyeing him, exasperated but not harsh. “We have brains, we notice things."  
  
Rhod blustered a little, finding his words. “I didn’t mean-” he paused, before he attempted again. “Where I’m from, the poor are not very educated about the inner workings of noble politics. The lower castes stay out of that kind of thing.”  
  
“I’d wager they know more than you think, Rhoderick.” Rhod didn’t mind his full name coming out of Salha’s mouth, somehow. Salha continued. “It doesn’t pay to mouth off about politics to people who think politics belongs to them. But we talk. We see as much as you do.” Salha rose, going to pull in the nets.   
  
Rhod hesitated for a second. “I...sorry. I didn’t mean to be a dick.”   
  
“No, I know”, said Salha, and his grin was back, “you’re just spoiled.”

Rhod blinked, going a bit red. He could feel indignance rising in his chest, but something dampened it, made him want to ask questions. “Am I?”  
  
“Almost certainly,” said Salha, “Comes with the territory. You get all of the comforts in the world and the price is losing your sense.” He indicated with his head and Rhod jumped up, crossing the boat to help haul in the loaded net.  
  
They heaved for a few moments before the momentum carried the wriggling mass of fish over and onto the base of the boat. Salha busied himself with moving the catch to a point in the boat where it wouldn’t weight to one side or another.    
  
“You really think I’m senseless?” There was a tiny vein of genuine hurt in Rhod’s voice, but mostly curiosity.  
  
“Mm, no, not completely.” Salha glanced at him, his gaze softening. “I’m just telling you the truth, I don’t suddenly hate you.”  
  
“No, I know,” said Rhod, worrying at his lip with a tooth. He was quiet back to shore, and Salha had the good sense to see he was mulling over what had been said. A new and more honest silence suddenly hung between them.  
  


* * *

 

“You come recommended by at least four different landowners,” said the Chevalier, his hair rippling ever so slightly in the wind. It was nearly permed - a pompous, affected Orlesian style that Rhod had decided he didn’t like at all. He also didn’t like the note of surprise in the man’s voice.  
  
“I’m good at what I do. Often, entrenched systems can do with an outside observer to take a look at how everything works and make suggestions that are a little more objective.” Rhod stood a little taller, his posture more assertive. “I understand the flow of coin, and I don’t ask a price beyond board and food.”  
  
“You are a dwarf, however,” said the Chevalier, and his brow tightened.  
  
“Yes, well, I mean, I had somewhat noticed.” Rhod was allowing a little of his irritation to enter his voice, but he had never claimed to be much of an actor.

Twenty minutes later he left having not gotten the gig. _Great. Now I’m stuck in this cheesecake of a city with nothing to do._ So far, Rhod hated Orlais. It was just like Orzammar, full of etiquette and rules he didn’t know and didn’t care to know.  
  
He had to admit though, Val Royeaux was gorgeous. It seemed to take up the entire world, the glittering stone streets full of the most outrageous fashions he had seen in his life. He had worn his finest dwarven mantle, heavy with silver, and was gratified to have gotten a few admiring looks; the Orlesians had a reputation for leaping onto everything exotic, and Rhod supposed he was it.  
  
Hadn’t helped him get somewhere permanent to stay, though. Val Royeaux was expensive, even for Rhod. Perhaps he would leave for the country and try to find another landowner, some petty regional lord with more land than hard cash. In the meantime, he wandered through the paved streets, his furred sleeves sweeping a wide arc in front of him whenever he gestured at something.  
  
It was not long before he was lost, still in search of the Emerald quarter where he had booked rooms. He was not inclined to worry - there was a pleasant autumn breeze, the evening was warm, and the sights were many. Street performers plied their craft every few hundred metres, and the varying smells of the city, food and incense and even fireworks, mingled as he walked. Behind it all was the distant echoing chant, the Andrastian song which sounded in constant refrain.

He let himself relax; since he had been pickpocketed in Amaranthine he kept his money in cleverer places, mostly under the folds of his heavy dwarven wools and chains. He felt like an adult tonight, wandering through the street alone, hundreds of miles from Orzammar, independent and responsible for his own destiny. This was why he had left home.

He stopped a few times to watch the dancers, especially, who played along the Antonine Way. One man caught his eye, dancing the Song of Stone’s Farewell. It piqued Rhod’s curiosity - it was originally a dance from a dwarven Housedicht; a melding of dance and theatre which Houses would put on internally as a show of wealth and culture. They were rare in Orzammar now, though Bhelen had funded a few in an attempt to rejuvenate a stagnant, war-obsessed noble caste. It was the dance of goodbye; Rolf the Surfacer leaves for Ferelden for the first time, to make his fortune, and his dance is a sorrowful, gentle thing, full of insecurity and nerves but also hope.

Rhod almost had to laugh. Here he was, so far from home, and this tiny piece of dwarfhood had caught up with him. It took him a long time to move away from watching the man’s dance - he danced it as a human would, not a dwarf, which gave it less power but more elegance. Rhod left an entire sovereign when the man was done and kept walking, his mind full of bees and memories.

After a while he came to one of the plazas that dotted the city. This was the plaza of light, something like a thousand lit torches stood around a grand, multi-tiered fountain whose water reflected an infinite constellation of warm orange stars. The sun had set, and so the entire plaza glowed with the light. It was not subtle, but it was breathtaking. Tonight was the third day of the Harvest festival, the night of gourds, and so there was pumpkin everywhere - in warm spicy soups, in sweet pies, even in savoury mashes and stews. Rhod bought himself a thin Orlesian flute of pumpkin juice and wandered a little from the stall, sitting on the second step of the fountain.  
  
In front of him was the dancer he had seen before. Without thinking, Rhod spoke.  
  
“You dance dwarven dances.”  
  
The man jumped, then looked around and blinked. He raised an eyebrow. “You give big tips.” He wasn’t Orlesian - Rhod could tell that from his accent. He’d come from down south too.  
  
“You’re Fereldan, then? Where did you learn it?”  
  
The man paused, suspicious - and then Rhod swung his legs back and forth, and the man’s expression softened. Not much of an assassin if he was one.  
  
“Did trade with Orzammar. Used to perform up in the Surfacer Quarter, the topside bit.” He wasn’t much older than Rhod, slim, with a pointed face and open, darting eyes. Rhod thought he looked a bit Antivan.   
  
“What’s your name?” Rhod blinked. “I mean, sorry, if it’s alright.”  
  
“Alfaad.” He held out a hand to shake, which Rhod took, and they talked the night away. When Alfaad left, he kissed Rhod on both cheeks, and they burned for an hour afterwards.  
  


* * *

  
  
Westpoint, border region of Orlais and the United Free Marches. Here the Reconstruction effort was in full swing, and Rhod’s services were in demand. High Queen Gwendolyn I’s campaign of unification had left the Marcher Lords poorer but securer, united against the sleeping giant of Orlais and the snapping fish of Antiva and Rivain.  
  
The largest citadel in the Free Marches, designed to prevent an Orlesian surge to the East, stood here, and Rhod had been in sole control of its finances, as well as overseeing a major overhaul of its military command structure. It was all very official, which was why he had taken a holiday, a short week-long jaunt to the coastal village of Boat.  
  
Boat sat in several rows of terraces, up from a sun-bathed harbour which was glorying in the heat of the summer. Rhod was spending all of his time on the patio of the taberna in which he slept, watching the boats move in and out of the harbour.  
  
It was in the warm evening air, amongst the cool drinks and table lights, that Rhod kissed another man for the first time. Or rather, the man kissed him.  
  
“You’ve never kissed anyone before?” he asked, incredulous.  
“Nope,” said Rhod, and drank a little more icewine.   
“Well then, you should,” said he, and thus the kiss.  
  
It was not a romantic experience, all told, but it made Rhod realise what a small thing a kiss was, and by extension what a small thing a relationship could be. Another good reason to leave caste-obsessed Orzammar - the gender politics of caste were complicated. He supposed it just confirmed he wasn’t meant to go back. He’d known that was how it was for him, for a long time, but sometimes it took a kiss to be sure.  
  
“You shouldn’t have kissed me,” said Rhod a while later, as they watched the sun set.  
“Why on earth not?” said the man, whose name was Tom, and around whom Rhod was consistently nervous, and had been regardless of the kissing situation.  
“You didn’t ask,” said Rhod, “you were supposed to ask.”  
Tom frowned slightly. “Well, sorry then.”

“It wasn’t bad.” Rhod stared resolutely at the horizon, as if to avoid having to be too directly involved in the conversation.

Tom smiled, a quiet smile that was as gentle as he was. A clerk from Kirkwall, he’d said, good with maths and nothing else. Not many other career options open for elves, even with the new representation law. His hands were so slender, and his handwriting was so beautiful.  
  
Rhod moved a hand over Tom’s; his was wide and fat and stubby, calloused from all his practicing. He had let his warrior’s craft wane during his travels, and he was training in earnest again.  
  
“I’m going to be gone in a few months,” said Rhod, biting his lip.  
“Yeah, I know,” replied Tom, and they lapsed back into silence.


End file.
